


Eulalie or the Taming of the Spode

by gentlezombie



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Christmas, Eulalie, Fluff, Lingerie, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlezombie/pseuds/gentlezombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Bertie came to know Spode's secret: a true story involving Christmas presents, ladies' lingerie, and misuse of poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eulalie or the Taming of the Spode

**Author's Note:**

  * For [furloughday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/furloughday/gifts).



> Happy New Year, furloughday!
> 
> Many thanks to AntigravityDevice for beta and general cheering on ♥

You may have read my account of the rummy business with the silver cow-creamer, Aunt Dahlia and a certain Roderick Spode, self-proclaimed dictator and advocate of healthy male knees. Indeed, at the time this shorts-clad personage reached an arch-nemesis-like stature in my mind, as the mere quivering of his formidable whiskers was enough to send me skittering from the room. Perhaps you also recall Jeeves’s ingenious remedy for this moustachioed malady.

However, I may not have been sticking to the letter of the truth in my description of the circumstances of this discovery. The Wooster code does not abide dishonesty. The old chivalric spirit raises its foolhardy head. For a select readership, I have written a true account of how Jeeves and I found out about Spode’s secret. 

It happened like this.

Jeeves and I had for the past few months been engaged in particularly chummy relations. The Wooster heart and associated body parts were entering from a warmish stage into the tropics, with humidity and thunderstorms and all the whatsits immediate. We had walked on some tricky waters before reaching a gentlemen’s agreement on the details of our continued cohabitation. The deal hadn’t quite been sealed in blood, unless you count the blood that rushed to my face as Jeeves gently cupped my cheek and kissed me for the first time. 

You can probably deduce that things were cosy at the Wooster household. However, the holiday season that slowly creepeth forth to catch a chap unawares caused no small amount of trepidation in me. I freely admit that I do not deal well with Unusual Situations. I like knowing where to purchase my hats, or the occasional cheerful suit, or where to duck when pursued by policemen and elderly silver aficionados. The evolution of our relationship raised a number of brain-wracking questions, the least of which was not: what is a suitable Christmas present for one’s valet turned tender lover?

I did what I usually do when the spirit is willing but the brain hasn’t yet quite caught up with its clamouring. I put the question to Jeeves. 

“Jeeves, what should I give you for Christmas?” I asked him as we were lying in bed, my head resting comfortably on his belly.

It was long past noon. This sort of indulgence was a new and welcome development. It had taken rather vigorous persuasion on my part to convince Jeeves that the silverware wasn’t going to run off to become go-go dancers and live in sin if he didn’t keep a watchful eye on it from dawn till dusk. 

He smiled at me in a soppy fashion, by which I mean that the corners of his mouth did a little upward twitch. “Whatever you want, sir.”

I had expected something along the lines of Spinoza’s newest brain-spinner or a special edition of the collected works of the poet Burns. This new ambiguous streak of his was decidedly unhelpful. I sighed in a forlorn fashion, rather like a seal lost upon a windy beach. 

“Don’t ‘sir’ me in bed, Jeeves – or do, if it makes you happy. Dash it, I want to make you happy, but you’re making it difficult, re: the whole Christmas malarkey.” The usually sunny disposish made to duck behind a cloud.

He carded his fingers affectionately through my hair. With that fish-fed brain of his, he had deduced that it was just the thing for calming forlorn sea-creatures and discomfited Woosters. 

“My apologies. I had not realised the matter vexed you so. However, I did mean what I said. I will be perfectly happy with whatever you wish to give me.”

I looked at him with the huge, pleading eyes that had melted many an aunt’s well-fortified heart.

“Help, Jeeves?” 

He sighed and relented. “How would you feel about a rather more… personal present? Something we could both enjoy together?”

I raised the questing eyebrows. “Just name it, old egg, and it shall be yours.” 

“Very well. I would like you to think of something you would like us to try in bed. This information should be delivered to the recipient well in advance and acted upon on Christmas Day.”

“But I’ve been quite happy with all the whatsits we’ve been up to,” I protested. A tiny, unpleasant voice pipped up in my head. “Are you not happy with what we’ve been doing? I said I wanted you happy, and I did mean it. Just say the word.” 

“That,” he said quite sternly, pulling me up to him, “was not my meaning at all. I only wished that you would find something you’d particularly like to do. I have requested quite a few things of you, after all.”

There was a bit of a blush on his cheeks, and an answering one on mine. Our thoughts had no doubt strayed in unison to the uses some of his feather-dusters and my silk-ties had been put to in the not at all distant past. 

“All right,” I conceded, feeling considerably lighter of heart. “I’ll try to think of something. All the Wooster intellect shall be dedicated to the cause.”

As the days passed and a solution did not readily present itself, I realised I might have been hasty in my relief. I simply couldn’t think of anything special we hadn’t yet tried. I even perused some related literature, left discreetly on my night-stand, and while it was certainly enjoyable, nothing made a particularly strong impression on me. The crux of the matter was that what I most wanted was Jeeves, the trappings being rather secondary. I knew he would not hold it against me if I simply went and got him a new volume of poetry, but I was also aware of how he liked being surprised. Life must generally be dull for a person whose brain leaves others sneezing dust at the starting line. 

The answer presented itself in the form of an auntly missive. Aunt Dahlia had sent me a copy of _Milady’s Boudoir_ , asking for my opinion on the merits of a new serial. While idly perusing the old rag and consuming my second cup of tea, I came upon an advertisement of a delicate nature. It seemed that Uncle Tom had once again put the lid on the gold and silver, and the esteemed aunt had found alternative avenues of funding. The drawings were rather stylish, but they were still risqué enough to bring colour to the damask cheek. After all, it is impossible to advertise undergarments for the young, well-dressed lady without making one think of the wearing of said garments. However, I was quite certain the path my thoughts had taken was not the old, well-trod one.

I put the question to Jeeves in my subtle way, meaning that I thrust the magazine at him and floundered a bit. 

“You have put thought to this, sir?” he asked, raising a meaningful eyebrow. I had a feeling I had managed to surprise him, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.

“Please contain the urge for subtle eyebrow-movements or metaphorical rolling of the eyes, Jeeves,” I said, feeling rather silly. “I hit upon the idea quite by accident, though I must admit to having entertained the occasional idle thought of a similar nature in the past. Let’s say no more about it, eh, Jeeves?” 

“On the contrary. I trust you will leave the judgment on colour and pattern to me?” Jeeves asked with that gleam in his eye he always gets when given free reins with the young master’s wardrobe.

“Oh. Oh yes, that will be for the best, don’t you think?” 

“Indeed, sir.” The way his eyes appraised the Wooster form, no doubt taking measurements for the cutting and placing of sewing-pins and whatnot, assured me that he did not disapprove of my suggestion.

Now, everyone who has seen me on those unfortunate occasions when some scheme or dastardly plot has required me to don the attire of the gentler sex knows that the willowy form is not entirely complimented by blouses and stockings and other occult paraphernalia. The manly Wooster spirit can fain be contained. It is not a sight for sore eyes. One might even go so far as to call it an eyesore. 

This aspect of the matter caused plenty of trepidation in me on the days before Christmas. Being used to sticky situations, I wasn’t afraid of making a fool of myself. However, overcome by enthusiasm, I had perhaps failed to take the recipient’s feelings into consideration, and that was extremely unchivalrous of me. What if Jeeves was permanently scarred by the sight?

I consoled myself with the knowledge that he hadn’t balked at the idea. He was a stout fellow and generally to be trusted in matters of hatwear and ties, and I told myself that I was doing him a disservice doubting him in this. Besides, impersonating the female of the species was not the intention here, which we had established when I had haltingly explained the scheme. 

Still, Christmas morning found me all aflutter. We made breakfast together to mark the special occasion (I held the teapot still while Jeeves poured water on the leaves), and afterwards he offered to draw me a bath.

“A bath and a shave, sir, before we proceed?” he said, his hand lingering on my shoulder. “I have noticed you eyeing my, or rather our, present all morning. However, given its nature, it might be pertinent for you to perform your ablutions before we commence with its application.” 

I coughed smoothly. “All right, Jeeves. Lead the way.”

The bath soothed the ruffled spirit a little, and I even closed my eyes as Jeeves shaved my chin expertly. There was something about it I always enjoyed – hands tilting my head this way and that, the feel of strong fingers on newly smooth skin, and the tiny thrill of danger which I could trust to be safely imaginary. 

“Bertie,” Jeeves said quite close to my ear. A pleasant shiver passed through me. His saying my name like that never failed to affect me. “Would you like me to be more thorough with your shave for this occasion?”

“How do you mean?” I asked, watching his hand stray down my chest and brushing over the manly curls. “Oh. I thought we weren’t going to…” A reduction in body hair would undeniably lessen the soul-crushing potential of Wooster _à la femme_. Still, I doubted. 

“I would only endeavour to ensure the proper fit of the garments, nothing more,” he assured me. It was terribly unfair of him to ask me anything with his warm hand splayed like so over my skittering heart. I nodded my assent.

“I did leave decisions regarding fashion to your discretion.” 

“Thank you, sir.” He kissed the top of my head before proceeding.

It was not nearly as sinister as I had feared. Evidently, the chest hair required some reining in, and I watched with a pang of nostalgic longing as the well-groomed fur of the legs had to go altogether. Still, the feel of Jeeves’s fingers massaging my calves in between wielding the blade was very pleasant indeed. He, too, seemed to enjoy the sight of the young master reclining in the bath with one leg raised on the edge of the bathtub. By the time we were finished and he helped me into my robe, we were both rather flushed. 

We popped down by the Christmas tree, Jeeves in his shirtsleeves and I in my robe sans underwear. He handed me a fortifying eggnog, and presents were exchanged. He uncovered the collection of Yeats’s poetry I had got him as an emergency gift in case of a, well, emergency. I poked and prodded at the large, soft parcel in my lap before I noticed Jeeves watching me, and then soldiered on. I revealed a mass of silk and lace, all pleasing to the eye and touch as far as one was able to tell without being certain of purpose of the items.

“Thank you, Jeeves,” I said, uncertain of the next course of action. “It all looks very well.” 

“It will look better when put to its proper use. Shall we retire to the bedroom?” He made to get up and reached out a hand to me.

Blessing Jeeves and his practical soul, I took his hand and followed. 

 

Jeeves slid the trusted, comforting robe off my shoulders and spirited it away, leaving me standing naked in front of the mirror.

He took his good time in dressing the young master, but I felt it prudent not to comment on this. I kept my eyes on the mirror as he unearthed piece after piece of silk and lace and explained their uses. 

“If you would step into these, sir,” he said, and I recognised a pair of short knickers being slid up my legs. The ghosting sensation of the silk on my skin was followed by the warmth of Jeeves's hands lingering on my thighs and my bottom. He was kneeling in front of me with a look of immense concentration on his face, and it was jolly hard not to reach out to touch him. There was no mistaking my interest, if you see what I mean, and he certainly did, being eye-level with it, but he seemed to be taking his mission with characteristic solemnity. I deduced that distractions might not be appreciated at this juncture.

The next item was more mysterious. The device he placed on my hips was a cross-breed of belt and corset which had gained a surplus buckle or three somewhere along the line. It came up to my waist. 

“This is called a garter girdle,” he said while his fingers were busied themselves on the lacings at the sides. “Its purpose is twofold. Young ladies wishing to attain a boyish silhouette use it to slim down their hips, and the straps at the bottom are useful for holding up stockings.”

I laughed a trifle nervously as his demonstrating fingers slid close to sensitive parts of the Wooster anatomy. “There's hardly any need for reducing the willowy frame, is there?” 

He smiled at me fondly. “Indeed not, sir. It seems you have an advantage there. However, as this is what the modern lady is wearing, it would have been remiss of me to exclude it.”

“Spoken like a true sage, Jeeves.” In the mirror, I noticed how his eyes lingered on the form-fitting garment. What I saw in the mirror was as of yet nothing to write home about, but I was rather certain the old Italians had said the same of Michelangelo's David when his well-formed backside was still a lump of marble. 

Next, a lacy band of fabric was attached around the chest region with straps over the shoulders and a hook in front to connect it with the girdle.

“This is another item which is perhaps not strictly necessary in our case,” Jeeves said close to my ear, his hands smoothing the fabric over my chest. I shivered and leaned back against his fully-clothed form. “This is called a bandeau, its purpose being to flatten the chest area to reach the desired form.” 

“Nothing left to be desired here, eh?” I joked.

“On the contrary, sir.” His eyes were dark as they met mine in the mirror, his hands lingering on my chest. For a moment I forgot that breathing was rather essential to one’s continued existence. Fortunately, Jeeves was quick to move on. 

I lifted my foot and put a hand on his shoulder for balance to let him slide the stockings home, which he did slowly and with extreme care. The silk felt topping on my newly smooth legs as Jeeves proceeded to attach the garter straps.

“Jeeves, are you certain that the placement of these straps is not erroneous?” I asked as everything had been strapped and prodded and cinched into place. The two straps in front, in particular, felt a trifle restrictive. 

“I can assure you that all has been thought through in great detail,” Jeeves said in a voice that had lost some of its smooth oiling. “There is one final thing, sir.”

I held out my arms as he draped the new robe over the Wooster form. I had barely noticed it before when examining the pile of garments. With this final touch completed, Jeeves took a few steps back. 

“I have endeavoured to do my best. Please look in the mirror, Bertie.”

I had forgotten to keep a watchful eye on the proceedings as my attention had irresistibly been turned to Jeeves. Now I looked, and blinked, and blinked again. The garments had not looked like much on their own, and I suppose I hadn’t really succeeded in imagining the result. 

“I say,” I said quietly.

They looked right on me. There was no better word for it, and the realisation filled me with a strange sort of joy. The silk and lace were of an ivory shade, accented here and there with dark blue trimmings, which did not clash with the gingerish Wooster complexion. They gave a curious softness to the old angular features. It all fit together so well that I was convinced any modern lady would have been pleased. 

And to top it off there was the new beautiful robe in dark blue silk, with sweeping see-through sleeves and delicate gold embroidery. Upon a closer look, I made out an understated but decidedly oriental theme.

“Dragons, Jeeves? Are you certain you’re quite well?” 

“I seem to recall you taking a liking to a certain china vase of a similar theme in the past. The item was broken beyond repair in an unfortunate incident.”

“It all comes back to me now. The dragons were crimson, weren’t they? Very spiffing. But I must say this is rather easier on the eye.” 

I couldn’t help but turn around to test the movement of the sleeves. They had a most pleasant wing-like air which made me feel lighter despite the grounding presence of girdles and straps and whatnots. When I had turned a full circle and faced the mirror again, it came to me that the robe was what really brought it all together. With it came a certain ease, a straightening of the shoulders and a conviction that I could pull off the rest of the ensemble. I glanced at Jeeves, detecting a cunning purpose here.

“What do you think, Jeeves?” I asked with a flourish of the sleeves, barely restraining myself from striking a pose. 

“Bertie.” The sentence was discontinued, for he had crossed the distance between us, his hands firmly on my hips as he proceeded to kiss me breathless. The weight of his hands on top of the restrictive garment was having an unanticipated effect on me. With a certain reluctance I pushed him gently away.

“How do you want me?”  I took a step or two towards the bed, my hand resting lightly on his waist; he turned with me as though pulled by a universal force. “On the bed, like this?" I popped down on the bed, and it seemed only natural to cross my legs. 

Jeeves nodded, his fingers not quite up to their usual agility as they worked on the buttons of his shirt. Usually it was the young master who found himself at a loss for words. This reversal was one I found I quite enjoyed. In a sudden fit of inspiration, I picked up a book from the nightstand. It was the volume of Yeats I had given him. I opened a page at random.

“’Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, enwrought with golden and silver light, the blue and the dim and the dark cloths of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet.’ Jeeves, have you read this poem?” 

He had the strangest expression on his face, as though he had seen something new and wonderful.

“I have indeed,” he said, and then leaned over me to kiss me, and lay me carefully down on the bed. 

In the past, our lovemaking had often been of the hasty and needful variety, but this slow pace felt right. I let him run his hands all over me to memorise each new texture in that formidable brain of his. He placed a row of kisses along my throat and down to my chest, and then kissed and gently bit my nipples through the fabric. The warmth of his mouth combined with the roughness of the lace had me squirming, and I felt his smile against my skin.

I got up on my elbows to watch his descent. He kissed the inside of my knee and proceeded to lay kisses along my thighs like one worshipping at the altar of some oriental deity. When he finally got where I wanted him the most, the smooth slide of silk felt both incredibly good and unbearably frustrating, and I was quite unable to tell one from the other. His fingers were followed by his mouth, and I’m not ashamed to admit that much hair-gripping and desperate grinding was involved from my part. 

“Jeeves,” I said in a voice that did not resemble a squeak. However, he seemed to be lost in some world of fairies dancing under the moon where it was the done thing to bring young masters to the brink of insanity with pleasurable frustration. I wish to say I calculated the risks carefully and came to the conclusion that sudden movements wouldn’t result in us being dislocated from the bed or him hitting his head against the headboard. Instead, I pushed and shoved insistently until he was on his back and I was straddling him, hands braced on his shoulders.

It was Jeeves’s turn to gape, but his hands found their way unerringly to my bottom as I began to move. Sweat was starting to dampen the hairs at the back of my neck. Everything was starting to fray; I felt dishevelled and didn’t give a whit. Reaching down, I realised that Jeeves had had the inspired notion to open his trousers. 

“Jeeves,” I said with increasing desperation, “how does one get out of these things?”

With a few deft movements, he disconnected some straps and pushed the wide leg of the underwear up and out of the way. I let out a relieved sigh when I finally felt bare skin against mine. After the longish route we had taken, the sensation was too good for this to last much longer. I wrapped the silk of the knickers around both of our members. Jeeves tensed, and his eyes opened wide, and I leaned down to kiss him. 

“That was something,” I said some time afterwards. We had done away with the rest of the clothing and were reclining happily on the bed. I still had my dragon robe on, although it didn’t do much to meet modesty’s demands, being currently spread out around me like the wings of some enormous moth. I could see myself growing quite attached to it.

Jeeves agreed that it had, indeed, been something. 

“Excellent work all around, Jeeves. Those wide-legged underthings were a stroke of genius. Anything else would be dashed impractical with all those straps.”

“A small concession towards the fashion favoured by the young individuals calling themselves flapper girls.” 

“Well, I’m grateful you decided to follow the modern fashions. It would have been dashed uncomfortable to see oneself in underwear reminiscent of one’s grandmother. Not that I’ve seen my grandmother in her underwear, you understand. Or anyone else’s, for that matter.”

“No, sir.” 

“It is crucial to establish these things, Jeeves, in order to avoid misunderstandings.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Don’t you think that it’s a little premature to start with the sirring yet?”

“My apologies, Bertie. I find it is an automated response to remarks which would otherwise inspire one to tell the speaker to go boil his head.” 

I swatted at him and then grinned. “You didn’t use to tell me things like that.”

He raised a meticulous eyebrow. “Does my forwardness not agree with you?”

“Oh, it does. I believe we recently demonstrated that you can be as forward with my person as you like.” 

“The feeling is mutual, my dear.”

There was a moment of comfortable silence during which I fiddled with the sleeve of my robe. 

“Jeeves, how does the poem continue? The one I started to read, I mean, when you interrupted me.”

I was not surprised when he didn’t have to reach for the book. He turned to look at me instead with something unfathomable in his eyes. 

“’But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet.’”

There was something at my throat, a tightness which did not allow me to speak forthwith, so the only thing to do was to kiss him and then kiss him again for good measure. 

“You can trust me to be careful with your dreams,” I said when I finally found my voice again. “I do share a great many of them, you know.”

“You didn’t even finish reading the poem,” he murmured, whatever that meant, and then, “I love you, Bertie Wooster,” so all was happiness and joy in the Wooster household. 

 

You may wonder how all this ties in to the business with Spode. As Sherlock Holmes shows us, the answers to mysteries are usually perfectly simple things which should have poked one in the eye instantly, with the consequence of leaving one feeling like a complete buffoon upon reveal. Similarly, I became aware of the _Eulalie Soeurs_ emporium, specialising in ladies lingerie, for the simple reason that Jeeves pointed it out to me on one of our customary walks.

“You expressed a desire to know where I procured the garments which brought us much joy on Christmas Day. I would advise you to look discreetly to your right, where you will see the specialty shop in question.”

Of course I couldn’t help staring and almost collided with a lamppost as my gaze fell upon a robust, well-moustached figure behind the counter.

“Who was that?” I enquired as my feet had found the correct course again.

“I believe that to be Mr. Roderick Spode, the owner and designer of the emporium. I did say his was a speciality shop, the speciality being lingerie for ladies and the like-minded. The latter is naturally not common knowledge.”

I had all but forgotten the conversation when the summons to Totleigh Towers came and I ran into Spode-shaped trouble. Before the appearance of unexpected Fink-Nottles and related incidents, the day had begun promisingly enough. A week prior, I had expressed to Jeeves my interest in one of those garter things the modern girl wears around the thigh to keep the stockings in place.

“Flapper fashion is highly irregular, sir,” had been the not exactly unexpected answer. I proceeded to point out some irregularities in relations between valet and self; he argued that this was still no reason to dress in a less than appropriate manner.

However, apparently the seed had been sown, for that morning Jeeves had presented me with the desired item while dressing me: a thin band of silk and lace, decorated with a row of tiny roses. He’d put it in place while expressing his wish for me to wear it for the duration of the day. This caused me to be late for breakfast and prone to distractions, neither of which warranted unusual attention.

And there the garter still was, fastened around mid-thigh underneath the old trousers, unseen but certainly not unfelt, when I run into Spode on the warpath. He had detected Gussie in my room, and like a man-eating tiger that has caught scent of its prey, he advanced on us.

My ‘hey nows’ and ‘steady ons’ did nothing to deter him, and I searched my mind desperately for something to do before Gussie was forced to jump out the window with a lapful of unknotted sheets. The formidable whiskers loomed in the horizon; the knobbly knees bore no thinking about. My muscles tensed, ready for flight, and met the constraining garter around my thigh. Suddenly the knowledge of where I had seen this personage struck me like a friendly lightning.

“Eulalie!” I squeaked out with momentous effect.

 

Now you know the truth of it. I’m afraid Roderick Spode is never going to learn of his contribution to the happiness of the Wooster homestead. The power of his secret is too pertinent to the continued peace of mind of this Wooster, and Spode being well-endowed in moustache and in possession of a violent soul, we must not add more weapons to his arsenal. However, I can heartily recommend _Eulalie and Soeurs_ for those occasions which call for fashionable lingerie for the well-dressed lady and other like spirits.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Bertie reads is "Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" by Yeats. I happened to be reading Yeats while thinking about this fic, and it struck me how well the poem fits both the description of Bertie's new robe and their relationship, so I thought Jeeves might well have been inspired by the poem.
> 
> I tried to stay faithful to the lingerie fashions of the 1920s, but I'm certainly not an expert on the subject; if anything's amiss, we'll say the characters took creative liberties...


End file.
